Entwined in Bark and Blood

The land stretched before Arkanos, barren and lifeless, like a corpse left too long in the sun. 

Frost clung to the earth in thin, brittle sheets, cracking under the slow, steady steps of his horse. 

The wind howled, carrying the scent of damp stone and something far worse—the stink of rot, of death left to fester.

He tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the fur lining coarse against his fingers. 

It did little against the cold, but it was better than nothing. His breath came out as pale clouds in the frigid air, vanishing like a forgotten prayer.

And then, he saw it.

The Outer Walls of the Sepulcher of the Forsaken.

A great black monolith, stretching impossibly high, as if trying to scrape against the heavens themselves. 

But there was no heaven here—only a sky the color of old ash, raining down snow. 

The old walls were covered in stubborn moss that refused to die even in the snow.